


Red in Tooth and Claw

by cywscross



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe, BAMF Stiles, Dark Stiles, Dom/sub Undertones, Eichen | Echo House, Hurt Lydia, Hurt Peter, M/M, Magical Tattoos, Murder, Non-Sexual Bondage, Pack Dynamics, Past Character Death, Post-Season/Series 05A, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Tattoos, Withdrawal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-06 15:50:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5422901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cywscross/pseuds/cywscross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Madness is not a state of mind. Madness is a place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the first two chapters some of you will have already read from stetervault but I did add a bit here and there to round it out a little more. Not by much, mostly just editing. Chapter three onward is the actual new stuff.
> 
> Also I wanted to finish this before I posted, but the plan was also to post by Christmas. Definitely not happening so I decided to just post what I have on Christmas and continue from there. The chapters are all a lot shorter than my usual stuff (~1000 words/chapter) but I hope you enjoy it anyway.
> 
> And lastly, I hope everyone has a Merry Christmas!

 

“Give me a chance,” Peter whispers, and it borders on begging.

Stiles looks at Lydia huddled by the door clutching Stiles’ jacket around her shivering form, eyes haunted but blind to the blood-splattered walls and floor and bodies around her.

And then he looks down at the werewolf at his feet, wearing the same flimsy hospital gown that Lydia still has on underneath Stiles’ coat. One of Peter’s hands, the human-blunt nails crusted with dried blood, clutches at Stiles’ pant leg near the ankle.

Peter’s throat clicks with a dry swallow. Feverish blue eyes gaze up at him. “Please. Stiles. I can be- I can be loyal. I can be whatever you want me to be. I’ll prove it. Just don’t-” He swallows again, and his Adam’s apple bobs. “-don’t leave me here. Please.”

Stiles glances at Lydia again. Then again at Peter. His bat taps once against the concrete floor, both splashed with crimson. A fan whirs in the distance, easily audible considering the silence permeating the building that only the violently dead can achieve.

He sighs and crouches down, ignoring the minute flinch that wracks Peter’s body like he’s bracing for a blow despite the fact that his grip on Stiles’ jeans never loosens an inch.

He tangles his free hand in Peter’s messy hair but he needn’t have bothered; the werewolf is already craning his neck back, baring the stretch of his throat, rolling until he’s showing his belly, all while pressing tentatively closer. His pupils are still dilated with the drugs running through his system.

Stiles sighs again, and then he gives the werewolf’s hair a brief tug before flattening his hand down the back of Peter’s head and neck and then settling between his shoulder blades. “Alright. Get up.”

Peter’s next exhale leaves him in a choked shudder that almost sounds like a sob, one that makes his chest heave with the force of it, and then he’s scrambling to his feet as quickly as he can, almost collapsing before he’s even halfway up. Stiles has to sling one of the werewolf’s arms around his own shoulders to help Peter walk.

Lydia – thankfully – can walk on her own, and her head snaps around the moment Stiles starts moving again. She latches on to his other side, and Stiles lets her. She hasn’t said a word since he got her away from Valack but she seems to recognize him, and he’s the only one she’ll allow close without screaming bloody murder.

They shuffle their way down the hall, manoeuvring around fresh corpses and puddles of blood. Peter sags more and more against Stiles even though he’s trying his utmost to stay upright and continue putting one foot in front of the other, like he thinks Stiles will leave him behind if he lags. Lydia whimpers when they pass a half-melted mask discarded next to the mutilated remains of the Pathologist.

Stiles was thorough but he certainly wasn’t clean.

They make it to the car before Peter’s legs finally give out. Stiles nudges Lydia into the passenger seat, shoves his bat on top of some plastic tarp on the floor of the car, and then wrangles Peter into the back, gritting his teeth but – after a moment’s hesitation – ducking down anyway to rub his cheek against Peter’s and letting Peter do the same in an effort to soothe the garbled apologies that the werewolf has been frantically mumbling since he almost brained himself on the edge of the car door.

It works, at least. Peter shuts up and clings and takes a few deep whiffs of Stiles while he’s at it. He’s reluctant to let go but he seems calmer when Stiles finally pulls back.

Stiles came for one inmate in this godforsaken nuthouse. He didn’t plan to come away with two.

But, as he throws a few blankets over Peter and bundles Lydia up with a few more before finally rounding the car to slide into the driver’s seat, he supposes he’ll just have to adapt. Both of them are his responsibility now.

 _His_.

And this time, nobody’s taking what’s his away from him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	2. Chapter 2

 

They’re barely out of California when Peter goes into withdrawal, but Stiles already has a suite booked in an out-of-the-way hotel, and ten minutes after Peter starts shivering much more noticeably in the backseat, they’re pulling into the underground parking lot.

It’s a chore and a half to drag both Peter and Lydia up to the suite without being seen but elevators are a wonderful, wonderful thing. The suite has two bedrooms, and Stiles hustles Lydia into one, tucking her into bed for the moment because she’s still largely unresponsive but Peter is the bigger concern right now.

With quick efficiency, Stiles unpacks a small pouch filled with a dark powder that he uses to sand down the headboard of the bed in the other bedroom. Thank god it’s a rail design. Then he wrangles Peter onto the bed, pulls out two pairs of handcuffs, and chains him down.

It’s like flipping a switch. Peter goes nuts, twisting and snarling, fangs bloodying up his bottom lip even as his body struggles towards a more complete shift, fighting against the drugs in his system. His arms strain against the cuffs, to no avail, and Stiles rolls his eyes when some part of the bed cracks under the force of the werewolf’s wild thrashing.

It’s a good thing Stiles had the foresight to ward the suite.

With an aggrieved sigh, Stiles swings himself on top of Peter, straddling the man’s waist and almost getting unseated before he can lean forward, balancing one hand on Peter’s chest and shoving the palm of his other hand into the vulnerable flesh under Peter’s jaw, forcing the werewolf’s head back so he can get his fingers around the curve of that neck.

Even drugged, Peter has the good sense to freeze, the whites of his eyes showing as supernatural blue threads through his irises. He bucks up once, wildly, all agitated aggression from ass to shoulders, only to make a choking noise at the back of his throat when that doesn't get him anything except Stiles' tightening grip around his throat. And just like that, the man’s legs stop kicking, which means the bed is no longer in danger of shattering to pieces, so Stiles supposes he can call this a win.

He levers himself forward a bit more so he can catch Peter’s gaze, and while he keeps a firm hand locked under the man’s jaw, he also makes sure not to cut off the guy’s airflow. Too much.

“You with me, Peter?” Stiles prompts, peering into near feral blue. Peter blinks rapidly, throat convulsing under Stiles’ hand. His pupils are still dilated but he’s at least focused on Stiles. Good enough. “Okay, listen, you’re going into withdrawal and I think we both know it’s gonna suck. But you ride it out and you’ll be good- well, better, afterwards. If you end up sleeping on a pile of splinters ’cause you kept trying to escape, I’m not getting you a new bed, understand?”

Peter’s nostrils flare with a sharp inhale that shudders right down into his lungs and rattles around in his rib cage. He’s trembling minutely again, that short burst of adrenaline ebbing to give way to his withdrawal symptoms, but he has enough presence of mind to nod, jerky and stiff, and Stiles eases his grip on Peter’s throat at last.

Peter swallows again, tentatively, and his arms remain limp in their restraints. He keeps his eyes on Stiles, even when Stiles clambers off the bed and wanders over to his bag. He comes back with a pack of tissues, and a few deft swipes gets the blood off Peter’s chin.

He stands, eyeing the werewolf critically for a moment before offering, “Want me to tie your legs down too?”

Peter glances down at himself, looks back at Stiles, and then nods again, chin barely dipping like he actually means to say no. Stiles shrugs, fishes out the pouch again, and proceeds to sand down the footboard. He eyes the last of the powder a bit mournfully. That’s some good deterrent against shifters and it’s going to take a month to restock it. Ah well. Needs must.

Once Peter’s ankles are cuffed as well, Stiles pats him on the knee before heading for the door.

Peter twitches, enough to yank against his restraints again as his body twists in Stiles’ direction, and his voice comes out thin and involuntarily panicked, “Wait, Stiles-”

“I’ll be back in five,” Stiles calls over his shoulder. “Just gotta check on Lydia.”

He ducks out before Peter can say anything else. Out in the living room, he takes a few seconds for himself, just to breathe. He rubs his hands against his jeans, and then he straightens and makes his way to Lydia’s room.

She’s still huddled under the blankets in the exact position Stiles left her in, but she seems to have fallen asleep. Restless, if her frown is anything to go by, but at least she’s getting some rest, and Stiles sees no reason to disturb her, even if she could do with a bath and probably some food too.

He switches on the lamp above the nightstand, dimming it as much as possible, and then he tiptoes out again and heads back to Peter’s room.

The werewolf is already shivering much more violently by the time Stiles returns, eyes glassy and blind with fever. It’s a good thing Stiles tied him down because he’s already fighting the cuffs again, trying to scratch at his own skin to get at the wolfsbane in his bloodstream, even if it means ripping himself open. He doesn’t even notice when Stiles takes a seat beside the bed, growling nonstop instead between reedy, pained whines as his struggles become more and more frantic.

It takes twenty-four hours. By the fifth hour, the bedding is shredded into uneven strips of cloth and foam. By the eighth, Peter’s wrists and ankles have been chafed raw. By the twelfth, the werewolf has howled himself hoarse, cheeks damp with tears, energy beyond depleted, and yet still trying to claw at any part of himself he can possibly reach.

At the fourteenth hour, Stiles leaves with the ice bucket, chats idly with a lady in a bathrobe as they take turns with the ice dispenser, and then meanders back to his suite and spends the next nine hours alternating between chilling the dangerously high fever out of Peter’s system and forcing water down Peter’s throat because it honestly looks like the werewolf’s healing factor isn’t going to cut it on its own.

At the twentieth hour, Peter finally seems to calm down enough to doze fitfully between bouts of agitated muttering even though he’s still tossing and turning as best he can. At the twenty-third hour, his fever breaks completely, and at the twenty-fourth, Stiles sits back with a tired sigh as the werewolf’s breathing evens out into something infinitely more peaceful.

Stiles nudges the melted remains of the ice bucket next to the wastebasket before hauling himself to his feet and going to check on Lydia. She stirs briefly but doesn’t seem entirely awake so he only coaxes some water into her before letting her nod off again, and then he goes and grabs a spare pillow, stuffs it under his head on the couch in the living room, and curls up to get some much deserved sleep himself, if only for a few hours. He’s sure one or both of his roommates will wake him up again soon enough.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	3. Chapter 3

 

A noise wakes him but doesn’t ping off his wards so he allows himself a few seconds to simply stare muzzily up at the ceiling before rubbing the grit out of his eyes and finally rolling off the couch, stretching the kinks out of his spine as he gets to his feet. It’s still very early, if the lazy glow of sunrise – still mostly overcast with the previous night’s shadows – is anything to go by, and he didn’t get to sleep until sometime past midnight. Wonderful.

It’s a matter of minutes to make himself some coffee. It should be a crime to start the day without it. He makes a stop in Lydia’s room, the occupant of which is  _still_  asleep, and holy shit that can’t be normal. Or maybe it is and she’s simply catching up on some much needed rest? Stiles doesn’t know for sure and that makes him antsy. If she doesn’t wake up and  _stay_  up by herself within the next few hours, Stiles decides, he’ll wake her up himself and go from there.

He heads next door. As he expected, Peter’s already awake, hair mussed, hospital gown torn in various places, and still cuffed to the bed frame in a position that’s more uncomfortable than a safety measure at this point. The werewolf’s already tense from head to toe but he tenses up _more_ the moment Stiles walks in, cheek compressing the shredded sheets under his head as he cranes around to follow Stiles’ progress across the room.

Stiles just makes a beeline for his bag before turning towards the bed.

“Morning, sunshine,” He produces a key with a sarcastic flourish as he sits down beside Peter’s right hip. “Feeling better?”

Peter’s eyes dart from Stiles’ face to the key and back to Stiles’ face again. And then, very deliberately, he relaxes his muscles and even manages to hitch a tight smile onto his face. His chin lifts a bit, though he keeps his gaze glued on Stiles.

“Much, thank you,” His voice is still rough with either misuse or  _over_ use. He shifts minutely, then freezes when the movement makes his cuffs clink. His breathing remains completely steady though, like he’s mentally counting the seconds for every in and out, and even the pulse in his throat flutters in even intervals without giving anything away.

It’s kind of impressive.

He doesn’t ask outright to be released, which is interesting. Stiles stares for a moment longer before snorting and sliding his coffee mug onto the nightstand. Then he goes to unlock the cuffs at Peter’s ankles first before moving towards the headboard and unlocking those as well, far hand first, closer hand second.

And then, well. Peter is quick. Stiles is quicker.

Peter’s left set of claws only have time to skim the fabric of his shirt before Stiles has a hand around his neck again, and with an upward heave, he cracks the werewolf’s head against the wood of the headboard, once, twice, and then flips him over so that he’s flat on his belly instead, and Stiles can dig the heel of his palm into the knobs of Peter’s spine right under his nape.

Peter’s still gasping with the sudden shock of it all, and his limbs continue to lash out, ripping up the mattress some more, but he isn’t trying to attack. The wild jerk of his arms and legs looks more like an unconscious reflex in response to Stiles’ manhandling that his brain can’t quite get under control just yet than any sort of intentional retaliation.

That doesn’t prevent Stiles from pressing down on the back of Peter’s neck anyway, and it does the trick. Peter twitches once, eyes and nose and mouth entirely smothered into the pillow underneath him, and then he goes very, very still. He even stops breathing. Not that he  _can_ breathe with the way Stiles has him pinned down.

Stiles counts to twenty, and then he counts another twenty, waiting until the taut stretch of Peter’s back muscles start convulsing with the lack of oxygen, just because he’s an asshole like that. Then he hauls Peter up and flips him over again, leaving the werewolf sucking in air, hacking it back up in a raspy cough, and then rinse and repeating rather desperately as he scrambles for footing. Metaphorically of course, because he doesn’t even make the attempt to get up. If anything, he stays plastered against the mattress, shaking like he  _hasn’t_  detoxed already, and even though his eyes are hazy, they still blink hard in the vague direction of Stiles’ head until they clear up.

Stiles arches his eyebrows. “You done yet?”

Peter’s gone wide-eyed. He’s still wheezing a little, and his hands flex, but they don’t leave the bed, palms staying down, and after a lengthy moment of what Stiles is pretty sure is some sort of reestablishment of some situational awareness and possibly self-preservation, the werewolf nods. He licks his lips and then nods again, but this time he also pushes his head up and back so that his throat is bared.

Stiles rolls his eyes and just climbs off the bed again, grabbing his coffee along the way. “Get up, go shower; you look like shit. I’ll find you some clothes.”

He gathers the handcuffs and his bag on his way out, closing the door behind him.

Jesus Christ. Now he just wants to go back to bed.

 

* * *

 

Peter is in the shower when Stiles returns to drop off the promised clothes on what’s left of the bed. Or at least he’s in the bathroom; Stiles can’t hear any water running. He doesn’t linger, choosing instead to head over to Lydia’s room again. She’s still asleep, but to his relief, when he puts a hand on her shoulder, her eyelids immediately begin flickering. When her eyes snap open, she’s already shrinking into herself, but then she catches sight of Stiles, and a moment of absolute bewilderment follows, coupled with a painful sort of hope at its heels.

“S- Stiles?” She whispers, and Stiles grins lopsidedly down at her in return. “Hey, how’re you feeling?”

His hand remains a firm, physical reminder of the here and now on her shoulder, and with a hiccupping sob that sounds like it was wrenched out from deep in her chest, the banshee lurches forward and buries her face in Stiles’ stomach, fingers clenching in his shirt.

Stiles swiftly gathers her into his arms, rubbing circles into her back as he croons reassurances at her.

“There’s-” Lydia pulls back just enough to look up at Stiles but she doesn’t relinquish her death grip on his shirt. “Stiles, the doctors- Theo-”

“I took care of the doctors,” Stiles says with a twist of a smile, and surprisingly, it makes Lydia relax. “And Theo…” His eyes drop, then return to Lydia’s too pale features. “He won’t be a problem.”

“But he’s still alive,” Lydia concludes, and she trembles under Stiles’ hands. “Stiles, Stiles, you were- you were right, Theo’s- he can’t be trusted, he’s- we need to  _kill him_ -”

“He’s back in Beacon Hills,” Stiles interrupts as gently as he can. “And I’m guessing you never want to go back there again, right?”

Lydia’s shaking her head before he finishes the question.

“Then we won’t, and Lydia,” He ducks his head to meet her gaze more directly. “He won’t hurt you again. I promise.”

Lydia still looks scared, but she peers back at Stiles, and – after a moment – tucks her head back into his side. He feels her nod.

Stiles runs fingers through the tangles in her hair. They don’t move for a good half hour after that.

 

* * *

 

“So Peter’s here too?”

“Mm-hm,” Stiles reaches for the scissors again. He’s no barber but - with Lydia’s input - he can cut a decent enough bob. And the whole point of this was that Lydia didn’t want long hair anymore.

“He asked me to take him with me,” Stiles adds as he carefully trims her bangs. “I did, so I guess he’s mine now. For better or for worse.”

Lydia tilts her head and studies him with some of her old sharpness for a few seconds, but whatever she sees, she doesn’t ask about it. Instead, she turns back to her reflection and makes a face. “God I look like a ghost.”

Stiles quirks a smile, brushing stray hairs from her neck. “Still beautiful, darling.”

Lydia smiles back, faint but somehow still real. She leans back against him and looks at their reflections again. “…How old am I, Stiles?”

Stiles puts down the scissors. He meets her gaze evenly. “Twenty years old, as of three months ago.”

He isn’t surprised when she starts crying again, and as light as she’s always been but especially now, he simply scoops her up and holds her until she can accept reality once more.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **See end notes for spoiler warnings.**

 

Lydia’s in the shower and Stiles is cooking breakfast when Peter slips out, beard trimmed down to stubble that seems a bit thicker than old times, wearing a simple shirt and sweats that Stiles bought from a gift shop downstairs, and – back to the wall – the man lurks in a corner of the sitting room that sunlight doesn’t touch like he’s a vampire instead of a werewolf.

Stiles glances at him from the stove. “Could you set the table? For three. Lydia’s here too.”

He’s almost surprised when Peter obeys, but then, Stiles almost killed him earlier, so. He  _wouldn’t_  have, not right now at least, but Peter doesn’t know that.

Stiles plates pancakes while Peter searches the cupboards and cabinets for glasses and cutlery. He stays a careful three feet away from Stiles but when he absolutely has to come within arm’s length to get at the cupboard next to the stove, he only hesitates briefly before edging closer. He keeps his flank to Stiles, and just when his fingers brush the cupboard’s handle, Stiles glances up, and Peter goes prey-still.

The last of the pancakes start sizzling, and Stiles looks back down again, tongue rolling over his teeth with mirth he doesn’t bother hiding.

“Relax, Peter,” Stiles assures airily, tipping the pancakes onto the last plate. “If I wanted you dead, I would’ve left you in Eichen House.”

He turns and takes the plates to the table. Behind him, he hears Peter’s near inaudible exhale before the clink of glass follows him out from behind the counter.

“And,” Peter’s voice is almost jarringly loud in the ensuing silence, and he clears his throat first before starting again as he comes to a stop beside the table. “And why did you let me out of there?”

Stiles flicks a noncommittal look at him. “You asked.”

Peter’s lips thin as if this answer displeases him. Stiles laughs, eyes lingering on the slight flinch that ripples across Peter’s shoulders. “Is that so hard to believe? You asked, and I thought, hey, why not. And I mean, you _really_ didn’t want to stay there, right?”

Peter scoffs, a flash of his old, biting cynicism surfacing. “ _No one_ wants to stay there, Stiles.”

Stiles just shrugs, retrieving a pot of tea and a jug of water. Peter fetches the butter and syrup. “Well, obviously. I only stayed there for a couple days and that was traumatizing enough.”

He pauses and then laughs under his breath again, hands curling around the back of one of the chairs. Peter watches him warily from the opposite side of the table.

“It’s just-” Stiles tips his head in thought, teeth grazing absently over his bottom lip. “Beacon Hills hasn’t really been much better.”

Peter raises a skeptical eyebrow. His mouth twists into a sneer. “Compared to _Eichen House_?”

He falters a little when Stiles just stares at him, thousand-yarded and unblinking. Then Stiles shakes his head and mutters, “It’s been two years, Peter. A lot can happen in two years.”

He senses more than sees Peter jolt with shock. Stiles smiles without mirth, thumbing at a shallow scar in the wood under his hands, and then they both look around when footsteps head their way from the bedrooms’ direction.

“Hey,” Stiles greets when Lydia appears, looking even smaller in one of Stiles’ overlarge flannel shirts and sweatpants, but she insisted, said they were more comfortable, and Stiles didn’t care enough to argue. She looks better though, washed and dressed and more or less rested, even with the lingering bags under her eyes.

She darts a guarded look at Peter before shuffling over to Stiles’ side and leaning into him. She smiles a bit when she sees the pancakes so Stiles pulls out a chair for her and ushers her into it before sitting down himself. Peter stalls for another few seconds but everyone likes pancakes, especially inmates who haven’t had enough to eat in two years, and werewolves are no different. Peter sits.

They eat in silence that’s mostly companionable, with an underscore of tension that everyone pretends not to notice. It helps that Lydia’s just content to enjoy her first decent meal as a free woman, and Peter still seems distracted by the fact that he’s pretty much lost another two years of his life- well no, it's two and a half years for Peter, isn't it? Stiles tends to count from when Theo formed his little pack but Peter was already in Eichen House half a year before that, and it's probably been at least that long since he got a full, warm meal.

Stiles is just glad he himself has something to eat.

“So,” Lydia is the one to break the hush, glancing over at Stiles as she sips at her tea. “Any scholarships? Which college did you choose? Or are you taking a year off?”

She tries to smile but it comes out more like a grimace. Stiles doesn’t answer right away, focusing on chewing his mouthful of pancake instead and idly twirling his knife in one hand. Peter looks up too with just his eyes, never actually raising his head from his meal, but Stiles spots the way he can't quite seem to decide whether to focus on Stiles or the sharp object and just ends up bouncing between both.

“Nah,” Stiles says once he’s swallowed. “I mean. I didn’t graduate high school. None of us did.”

Lydia does a double-take. Peter’s eyes are going to get stuck that way if he looks any harder. “What? Why not?”

Stiles shrugs indifferently, reaching for his water. “More important things to worry about. It’s-” He passes an eye over Peter before stopping on Lydia. “-been a long two years.”

Something like dread starts pooling in Lydia’s expression. “Stiles,” She says slowly, setting down her tea. “What happened with Theo and the Dread Doctors?”

“I know who the Dread Doctors are but who’s Theo?” Peter speaks up for the first time since breakfast began, looking first at Lydia before settling on Stiles. Stiles sighs and answers him first.

“A werewolf-werecoyote chimera, made by the Dread Doctors,” He explains succinctly. “Not that we knew that when he first came to Beacon Hills in our senior year. He was classmates with Scott and I back in fourth grade but he and his family moved away later.”

He stops, and Lydia – surprisingly – takes over, voice terse. “He’s a sociopath. He pretended to be friends with us, got Scott to trust him.” Her features tighten. “Not that that's difficult. But he was really working for the Doctors. We should’ve listened to Stiles. Gotten rid of him when we still had the chance. He was the one who put me in Eichen House to keep me out of the way.”

Stiles frowns, clacking his teeth against the rim of his glass. “Shit happened. He made a pack of his own, out of the other chimeras that the Doctors created. They were failed experiments, and they all died at one point or another but Theo revived them. Tracy, Hayden, Corey, and Josh. Almost killed Scott in the process, ’cause he wanted to be an Alpha.”

He pauses and smiles with dark amusement at a suddenly stiff-shouldered Peter but doesn’t comment. “But anyway, that’s old news. Lines were drawn after that. Liam sided with Theo, because he was crushing on Hayden and mad at Scott for not saving her when she was dying. So it was Theo’s Pack against Scott’s Pack, or what was left of it anyway, for the territory. And everyone was against the Dread Doctors because they were out to get everyone. They used Eichen House as their stronghold. That place was like Fort Knox. They’d come out, snatch people left and right, attack us if possible, release their experiments for tests, and then disappear behind those gates again before we could get the chance to retaliate. Oh, and-” Here he stops again and chuckles. “-and then Gerard Argent came back to town. That was a nice little reunion.”

Peter’s eyes blaze electric blue. Lydia looks on in disbelief. “That guy’s still _alive?!_ ”

“Well there was never a body, was there?” Stiles reminds her. “Chris stuck him in a nursing home. Thought he wouldn’t be able to do any harm, what with how he reacted to the Bite.” He scoffs. “But he healed. And he came back, cancer-free and not a werewolf as far as we could tell.”

Silence falls again, and for a few seconds, Stiles just watches the glint of silver whirl between his fingers, the edge of the knife cutting through air, round and round and round. Then he continues without looking up. “Town like Beacon Hills – with how loud it’s gotten, we couldn’t stay off the map forever, not when it was practically open war, with the body count stacking up every other week.  Someone was bound to notice.”

The knife comes to an abrupt halt. Stiles drops it back onto the table with a clatter.

“What- What does that mean?” Lydia persists, but she says it like she’s not sure she wants to know. Or like she's already guessed and doesn't want it confirmed.

Stiles scrubs a hand over his face before clambering to his feet. He feels both their eyes on him as he strides over to the handful of duffel bags by the couch that he brought in days ago. Some are filled with clothes. Most are stocked with weapons.

It’s an old newspaper that he fishes out though, a little crumpled, folded and unfolded and refolded enough to leave permanent creases. He brings it back to the table and slaps it down.

Both Peter and Lydia lean in for a closer look. They needn’t have bothered. It’s front-page news, bold and big and terrible.

“‘Non-Human Registry’,” Lydia reads out as if – for once – her brain just can’t compute. “What- _Are you telling me-_ ”

The violent scrape of a chair against floorboards cuts her off, and she instinctively flinches at the noise even as Peter springs to his feet, something lupine already seeping into his features.

“We’ve been found out?” Peter demands, staring almost wild-eyed at Stiles. “The whole world _knows?!_ ”

Stiles says nothing. He just nods, arms crossed, hip against the edge of the table.

“Are you telling me that _everyone now knows_ _werewolves are real?!_ ” Lydia shrills, horror balling her hands into fists.

Stiles reaches for the newspaper, shakes it out. “For a little over a year and a half now, yeah, but it’s not just werewolves. Of course, they still don’t know exactly how many supernatural creatures are out there, but they’re aware of more than just werewolves, more than just shifters. Banshees are on the list-” Lydia turns white. “-and so are kitsune, among others. So-” He directs them to a bolded paragraph with a wave of his hand. “-all non-humans are now required to register themselves with the government. They’ve got a brand spanking new department dedicated to it these days, with people in every state, as of about a year ago.”

He chuckles again. Lydia and Peter just stare at him like they think he’s gone crazy.

“How?” Peter is the one to force out through a few too many teeth. “How did this happen?”

Stiles drums his fingers on the table. “Like I said, Beacon Hills got too noisy. You can’t-” He snorts. “You can’t wage war without someone coming to investigate, and it _was_ war. We – me and Scott and Kira and all the others – we dropped out of school, just stopped going because the Dread Doctors attacked us there. Twenty-two students and three teachers died that day. _Finstock_ died that day 'cause that crazy bastard jumped on one of the Doctors when it was about to kill me or abduct me or whatever. Five more went missing and reappeared later looking like mutations of a dog and a bodybuilder. They were rabid and only obeyed the Docs. I think they killed over forty people before we managed to put down the last one, but, you know. We’d stopped counting the dead by then.”

Lydia’s mouth has dropped open, and she looks faintly ill. Peter’s face looks like it’s carved out of granite.

“Scott’s dad came back,” Stiles continues distantly, turning his gaze to the far window. “Found out about- everything. Hard not to when his son was running around trying to convince Theo onto his side and fighting monsters every day. And Agent Asshole’s an asshole but he did try to keep things contained. But he wasn’t the only FBI there, and somebody reported it to somebody else, and it went up the chain of command, and basically within a few months, we were all just fucked. I mean not that we weren’t fucked before the goddamn government found out but, you know, we were fucked less.”

He rubs a hand over his mouth. Smiles at the other two and then sits back down to finish his breakfast.

“Hunters got it good these days,” Stiles tells them around cold pancake. “Loads of jobs for them, rounding up non-humans or killing the ones who resist or training even more hunters. Non-human sympathizers are usually arrested but, well. Slip of the hand and oops, right? Hell, you should see Gerard. He’s got his own talk show ’cause he’s one of the ‘leading experts’ on hunting shifters. It’s a real hit with-”

“Stiles. Please _._ _Stop_.”

Stiles stops. Peter has his hands pressed flat against the table, and his shoulders are hunched so high that his head hangs between them. Lydia is silent, hands clasped together, knuckles bled white.

“America’s about twelve steps away from Salem witch trials now,” Stiles murmurs in tones that are no longer quite as harsh or borderline manic. “I don’t know what it’s like in other countries – media’s not so big on broadcasting anything other than 10 Ways to Tell Your Neighbour is a Non-Human – but we get border checks sometimes. Or random road checks. Some establishments won’t let you in unless you pass the mountain ash test. Easiest way to catch a shifter.”

“What happens-” Lydia’s voice cracks, and she tosses her head like she’s annoyed by this. “What happens if you register? I mean, someone must have, right?”

“Not at first, but yeah, later, when shit got really real,” Stiles pushes away his empty plate. “Supposedly, they work for the government now, rounding up non-humans. I think a pack of werewolves up in Washington was first, for one reason or another.”

“ _Pet dogs_ ,” Peter spits out, head lifting, a snarl on his lips. “Collared and leashed.”

Stiles shrugs, more tired now than he’d care to admit. “Yeah, pretty much.”

For a while after that, there’s really not much to say. The haunted look is back in Lydia’s eyes. Peter keeps shooting glances at the door that aren’t subtle at all.

“Where’s the Pack?” Lydia asks out of the blue. Or maybe not so much, all things considered. “Are they- Did they register?”

Stiles snorts. “Of course not. Scott wanted to. Said it would be safer and that maybe we could work with them, tell them non-humans aren't so bad- you break this, Peter, I will make you pay for it one way or another, and you don’t have a dime to your name right now.”

There’s a moment of contemplation, and then Peter carefully eases the pressure that he’s putting on the table so that the legs stop shaking. He even sits back down.

“But not even Kira was that naïve,” Stiles continues. He rocks onto the back legs of his chair, then sways back onto all four with a thud. “Her parents wouldn’t have let her anyway. Her mom. They packed up and disappeared overnight.”

Lydia’s brow furrows delicately. “Scott-”

“Kira was losing control of her powers, remember?” Stiles shakes his head. “She and Scott were already drifting apart. I think she reminded him too much of the Nogitsune sometimes.”

Lydia’s eyes widen and then narrow, indignant rage seeping into the slash of her mouth, but she keeps her thoughts on that to herself. “And Scott? Um, Parrish? The others?”

“Parrish is… gone.One day there, the next day not. Not a fucking clue where he went but he’s a hellhound.” Peter’s eyebrows shoot up. “If any non-human can survive, it’s him.

“And Liam, Liam flipped his shit ages ago,” Stiles snorts. “I called it, you know. I  _said_  he was a ticking time bomb. His anger got the better of him, especially after Hayden was killed.”

“Hayden’s-”

“Dead. Killed a while back actually, by the Docs. So was Tracy. Theo already bailed but Liam charged in after, didn't think, just attacked them and got himself cut in two for his efforts. With a chainsaw coated in some new strain of wolfsbane. One of the Docs was even writing down notes about the results, and all Liam did was scream about Hayden. Stupid fucking kid.”

He stares at the table. Liam always was a stupid kid, falling into holes all the time, trailing after him and Scott, even mouthing off to other seniors when they picked on him for hanging out with a bunch of seniors so that Stiles was always having to fish him out of trouble before he got his nose broken or flashed his eyes at the wrong time.

Stupid fucking kid.

He stills when a slender hand drops on his. He doesn’t return the grip but he lets Lydia curl her fingers into his palm.

“Mason got out,” Stiles reveals curtly. “After Liam died, he didn’t have much of a reason to stick around, and his parents were already spooked, so they left. I don’t know where he is now but he’s human. If he keeps his head down, he’ll survive.”

But not likely. Mason had Scott’s brand of kindness, though thankfully not the naivety.

“And Malia?” It’s Peter this time, and he seems- not calmer, but less like he’s about to make a run for it.

Stiles makes a considering noise. “Malia’s… complicated.”

Peter doesn’t blink. Stiles sighs. “She sided with Theo for a while.” Peter’s lip curls. “Yeah. She was interested in what he could teach her about shifting and stuff. But then he left her behind when the Docs cornered them one time so that was that.”

“And you saved her.” It isn’t a question.

Stiles purses his lips. “I pushed her away for a little while. And without me, well, the others were all busy with their own problems. She was alone. That was probably part of the reason she went to Theo so I kept an eye on her, that’s all, and she almost got captured that night anyway. And by then, things were already going down the drain, word about the supernatural was already getting out, going viral, so I smuggled her out as soon as I could. Gave her Cora’s address and told her to run. I know she made it to Cora because she gave me a call, but I told her to ditch her phone after that, told Cora too, and I had to get rid of mine as well, so I don’t know how she is now. How they are.”

“Why didn’t you go with her?” Peter almost snaps. His jaw clenches when Stiles levels a flat look on him but he laughs, a mean, ugly little sound. “Of course. Scotty.”

Stiles shrugs. “My dad actually. Theo almost killed him right before he formed his pack. Then he really did kill him during one of Scott’s little peace talks after everything was already shot to hell. Apparently, second time’s the charm, not third.”

He pauses. Lydia has her free hand clapped over her mouth. Peter has gone unnaturally still again. For a second, his nose flares, and his tongue actually flicks out like a snake tasting the air, and then his mouth clicks shut, his shoulders pull back like he’s hit a wall, and he flashes his throat at Stiles.

Stiles just smiles at him, bland and unassuming and so, so mild. Peter’s chin lifts another half-inch.

Lydia’s grip tightens around his hand, which reminds him- “Your mom should be fine. I mean she’s very fond of…”

“-burying her head in the sand?” Lydia finishes dryly. “Yeah, I know. Tracy was throwing up black goo and feathers and she said that was a normal symptom of night terrors. And she kept trying to get me to go to class instead of figuring out what the hell was up with the chimeras because apparently there was nothing to figure out, there was a logical explanation, and we had wild imaginations.” The corners of her mouth tip down. “…She left?”

Stiles nods. “She couldn’t find you. Wouldn’t believe me when I told her a bunch of psycho doctors had you in their lair. Imagine that.”

Lydia snorts but she turns and rests her forehead against his shoulder and goes quiet again. Stiles closes his eyes. The clock ticks louder than ever on the wall. There’s a rustle, and when Stiles opens his eyes again, Peter has the paper in his hands and is reading it more closely.

“…Why now?” Peter enquires softly without really looking up.

Stiles slings an arm around Lydia’s shoulders and tips his head back to stare up at the ceiling. “Eichen House is full of non-humans, with defenses that can stop an army.”

“The government figured out a way around it.”

“Well, if you call bombing it from the air ‘a way’, sure.”

Lydia’s head comes up. Peter’s doesn’t but he's definitely not reading whatever article he was reading anymore either.

“Agent Asshole managed to call me, just for a few minutes,” Stiles clarifies. “Told me about what the higher-ups were planning to do so I knew it was now or never. I couldn’t get you out before, because Eichen House is so well protected. But there’s still one guaranteed way into Eichen House. Always has been, but it’s a last resort.” Stiles smirks sharp enough to eviscerate. “Let the Docs catch you.”

“You _what?_ ” Lydia hisses.

Stiles waves a dismissive hand. “I overpowered them, obviously. And I packed up beforehand, got as much as I could ready. And then I got you out. Got Peter out.” He meets Peter’s blue eyes. “And here we are.”

He looks back at Lydia. “That’s why I told you Theo isn’t a problem. I didn’t tell him about the bombing.” His grins, all teeth. “He wants to take over Beacon Hills so badly, he can die with it too. Captains go down with their ships after all.”

Lydia stares at him for a long, breathless moment. And then she lets it go with a whoosh of pure relief, and before Stiles can blink, she’s hugging him. When she pulls back, her expression is one of cold, vindictive satisfaction.

“What about the civilians though?” Lydia asks. “And Scott? Mrs. McCall?”

“Most humans had already left, early on; the rest, collateral I guess,” Stiles pushes his tongue into his cheek for a moment. “And Melissa’s dead and buried.”

Lydia shuts her eyes, and even Peter crinkles the paper in his hands for a second. “Doctors?”

“Theo.”

“…And Scott? Did he leave? Did his dad get him out already?”

Stiles quirks a smile again, and Peter abruptly sucks in another breath, shoulders hitching up once more. Even Lydia draws back as Stiles stands.

“Oh, didn’t I mention?” Stiles raps his knuckles twice against the table, smile widening as he looks at Lydia, looks at Peter. “Scott’s dead. But you know, even-steven. He got my dad killed. So I killed him back. And there’s no point staying mad at the dead, right?”

The silence is deafening. Lydia is frozen in place. Peter’s actually dropped the newspaper so now it’s halfway in his syrup, halfway in his lap. Stiles just gathers up his plate and cutlery and drops them off at the sink. And then he walks away, right out of the suite.

Fresh air sounds good right about now.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**
> 
> **Spoiler Warnings: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Discrimination, Werewolf Discrimination, Bigotry & Prejudice, War, Post-War**


	5. Chapter 5

 

Stiles goes back to the suite hours later, with fresh groceries. His wards haven’t kicked up a fuss so Lydia shouldn’t have killed Peter, Peter shouldn’t have killed Lydia, neither should have left, and nobody should have knocked down the front doors looking for non-humans.

He steps inside, toeing the door shut behind him. It’s dark, evening outside, lights off inside. But there’s Lydia on the couch, curled up and asleep under the sheets that she no doubt dragged out from the bedroom. And there’s Peter, asleep at the dining table, head pillowed on his arms.

All the dirty dishes have been washed and dried and stashed away in their proper places so Stiles just opens the fridge and quietly puts away the groceries. Then he goes to stand beside Peter, examining the man more closely, and as if sensing the eyes watching him, Peter’s brow scrunches with discomfort but he doesn’t wake. He doesn’t look younger in his sleep, or more relaxed or whatever. Mostly, he just looks like life chewed him up and only spat him back out after it robbed Peter of all the flavours he could possibly give and then some.

Stiles sighs. Then he exits the suite again, finds the closest door marked ‘Employees Only’, and steals two sets of bedsheets and half a dozen pillows.

Peter jolts awake like he’s been electrocuted when Stiles shakes him by the shoulder. He automatically recoils, but then he catches sight of Stiles, and suddenly he’s pushing _in_ to Stiles’ hand instead.

Stiles frowns for a moment, then he runs a thumb along one of the tendons in Peter’s neck. The werewolf’s shoulders drop, and his eyes – still a little sleep-dazed – fall to half-mast.

Stiles hums thoughtfully and pulls his hand away. Peter jerks a bit like there’s a string attached between them before he noticeably pulls himself to an abrupt halt. He looks a bit more awake now so Stiles gives him a nudge in the direction of his bedroom. “Go to bed if you’re tired. Don’t sleep at the dining table.”

He heads over to Lydia next and just picks her up, blankets and all, instead of waking her. Somehow, she looks even worse than Peter. She stirs but remains asleep as he tucks her under clean sheets. When she rolls over, Stiles leaves to dump the old blankets in a pile by the door.

He looks in on Peter as he passes. The man is standing at the foot of the bed and staring at the fat pillows with a strange expression. Stiles rolls his eyes and leaves him to whatever it is he’s doing. He doesn’t seem to be having a flashback or anything at least.

There’s a porch attached to the suite so that’s where Stiles goes to light up. He takes a long drag before leaning back to watch the smoke swirl lazily up towards the few visible stars in the sky. Plastic chairs aren’t comfortable by any stretch of the imagination but he lounges back in his anyway, loose-limbed and languid, enjoying the temporary reprieve. But eventually, he does roll his eyes and grunt out, “If you wanna sit, sit. Stop hovering.”

There’s a moment of hesitation, and then Peter steps out and carefully eases himself into the other chair. He’s barefoot and wearing the same sweats but he’s thrown on a different shirt. He doesn’t talk, but Stiles isn’t really up for conversation anyway.

In the distance, a car honks. There are no sirens tonight, no gunshots. Stiles isn’t really used to that. It makes his teeth itch, feeling like he’s stuck in limbo and waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for someone to come and kill him or someone he cares about.

Then again, he doesn’t have a whole lot of the latter anymore. Hasn’t in a while.

He pushes those thoughts away. No use getting depressed. That’s a downward spiral he can’t afford to follow. Doesn’t want to either. World’s depressing enough as it is. No need to add to it.

A few feet away, Peter makes a tentative, entreating noise low in his throat but Stiles doesn’t glance at him until he actually speaks. “Do we have a destination beyond this hotel?”

Stiles quirks a curious smile. “What, not gonna ask me about Scott?”

Peter’s eyes sharpen but his voice remains as even as before. “Do you want me to?”

Stiles blows out another billow of smoke, eyes drawn towards the dark horizon. “Not really.”

“Then…” Peter shrugs, and the roll of his shoulders is almost exaggeratedly deliberate. Even his hands spread for a moment.

Stiles snorts. He puts his feet up on the little plastic table. “…No. No destination. We’ll just be… travelling. Surviving. I don’t think you really understand the world you’ve woken up in yet. I’ve given you a summary. I can assure you that the exposition is infinitely worse. When we leave here, it’ll be because we have to. Be grateful we’ve been able to stay in one place for even this long.”

He pauses, absently fiddling with his lighter. It’s plain, metal, no markings. He takes one last drag before stubbing out his cigarette.

“I hear those are bad for your lungs,” Peter remarks in milk-mild tones. No disapproval. Just observation.

But Stiles laughs anyway, dropping his feet back to the ground and standing up. “I’m gonna die one day, Peter. Probably sooner rather than later at the rate the world is going to hell, but I guarantee it ain’t gonna be lung cancer that kills me.”

He makes to go back inside and then switches direction at the last second, pivoting sharply and angling for Peter instead, and when he reaches out, lightning-quick, it’s to slide his palm around the curve of the man’s neck and hold it there. Peter instantly freezes, twitching like he can’t quite decide what to do, but then – all at once – he lets his head tilt back and his body slump, just a bit, so that Stiles is partially propping him up, and a shudder wracks his frame even as his eyes lift to meet Stiles’.

Not challenging. Just waiting.

Stiles arches an eyebrow, prodding Peter’s head up a bit more with a couple knuckles under his jaw. “What’s this then? Not twenty-four hours ago, you were trying to kill me. I mean, keyword being ‘tried’, and implied words being ‘failed miserably’, but still.”

Peter’s throat vibrates with a sound that never quite makes it out into the open. His tongue darts out to wet his lips before he murmurs, “ _You_ _didn’t_.”

Stiles studies him for a long, unblinking moment. Then he traces a nail along tanned skin that does nothing to hide the quickening pump of blood, and Peter twitches again like his brain wants to do three different things and his body wants to do another three and he doesn’t know which one to choose. Stiles makes up his mind for him by squeezing down lightly, and Peter makes another little noise before sagging back in his seat.

For several long seconds, Stiles just rests his hand there, fingers catching in the short strands of hair at Peter’s nape, and a thumb resting directly over the carotid so he gets to feel Peter’s pulse go from racehorse back down to a leisurely steady stutter.

Only then does he let go, easing off slowly, and even then he ends up watching Peter sway a little, almost drunk, before he shakes his head a few times like he’s clearing it of cobwebs.

“Have you eaten?” Stiles asks shortly as he turns away and heads back inside.

“I- No, not yet,” There’s a grimace in Peter’s voice as he shuts the porch door, though when Stiles rounds the kitchen counter and focuses on the werewolf again, Peter’s face is entirely blank even as he tracks Stiles’ every movement.

“I’ll make something,” Stiles reaches for the fridge. “Lydia hasn’t eaten either?”

He spots the shake of Peter’s head from the corner of his eye. Dinner for three it is.

“You told me you could be loyal,” Stiles says conversationally when he turns around, unwrapping some pre-packed chicken. “So far, I’m not seeing it.”

He senses more than sees Peter recoil like he’s been shot. The werewolf’s jaw works, and his mouth opens, but then he closes it again without saying anything, and instead, his neck bends in a way that looks distinctly uncomfortable but also gives all kinds of obligatory submission signals that radiates a nervous apprehension underneath it.

There’s something about Peter that’s a whole lot more animal than human these days. Even just a few days together is enough for Stiles to pick up on the fact that the werewolf no longer talks half as much, and there’s a lot more body language going on instead. But then, Eichen House always changes people.

Stiles says nothing more. Peter skulks, over in the corner, and his eyes are slivers of otherworldly blue beneath dark lashes as he watches Stiles cook.

 

* * *

 

Lydia _does_ want to talk, and unlike Peter, he supposes she has the right. Doesn’t mean he’s going to make it easy for her.

“So?” She demands, curled up in bed, and Stiles can hear the queen she still is deep inside. Still, it wouldn’t be Stiles if he doesn’t glance up with a smile from where he’s cleaning a gun. “So?”

Lydia huffs and gives him a more pointed glare. “ _Stiles_.”

Stiles drops the smile and picks up the oil. “What do you want me to say? I killed Scott. End of story.”

Lydia scoffs. “I doubt that. It can’t be that simple.”

Stiles just chuckles. “Everything’s simple these days, Lydia. Kill or be killed. That’s it.”

Lydia’s eyes narrow but she doesn’t respond right away, watching Stiles work instead. He’s reassembling the gun before she speaks again. “Do you regret it?”

Stiles looks her straight in the eye. “No.”

Lydia cocks her head. “You really mean that.”

Stile shrugs and hoists himself off the end of the bed. “No point lying, is there? You’re not angry with me about it, for whatever reason, and even if you were, you’re not about to just walk out the door. You’re smart enough to stick around at least until you get a feel for what the world is like nowadays.”

The last bit, on the other hand, apparently does get her mad because she’s suddenly glaring at him much more heatedly, arms crossing in front of her. “I’m not _leaving_ , Stiles. I don’t know what happened ’cause you won’t tell me, and even if you did, it’s not like I was there so I’m in no position to judge. But I’m ‘sticking around’ because I want to.” She blows out an irritated breath that shields something far more helpless. “You got me out of Eichen House, Stiles.”

Stiles pins her with a hard look. “You don’t owe me for that. I mean we’re friends. If anything, I probably should’ve tried getting you out sooner.”

Lydia shrugs and repeats, “You got me out. That’s more than I can say for anyone else. I don’t know all of what happened to you but you’re- Maybe it was the- the war. And then the whole reveal thing. But you’re… you’re stronger now. The you at seventeen though – no matter how resourceful you were, I just can’t see you breaking into Eichen House and surviving the Dread Doctors on your own. Not back then. So the way I see it, you got me out as soon as you could. I don’t owe you ’cause we’re friends. But because we’re friends, I’m also staying with you.”

Stiles stands motionless for a long moment. Lydia stares back with eyes that have known the worst of humanity and survived it, and they dare him to refute a single word she’s said.

He tosses the gun onto a nearby chair instead and sits back down on the bed, next to Lydia this time, closer. Lydia smiles, bottom lip caught between her teeth, a little shy, but fierce too, and so, so honest. It reminds him – for a split second – of kinder times. Easier times. Times when their biggest problems were winter formals and douchey Alphas and trigger-happy werejaguars.

Hindsight is twenty-twenty.

“Can you shoot?” He asks abruptly, gesturing at his gun.

Lydia blinks, startled, before shaking her head. “No, I- Parrish taught me a few self-defence moves but other than that…”

“You’ll need more than that,” Stiles nods to himself. “I’ll teach you. At the very least, I can get you used to handling a gun.”

Lydia frowns. “Is that going to be likely? Shooting someone, I mean.”

Stiles doesn’t beat around the bush. “Yeah. Very.”

Lydia stills, gauging his expression, and then she sighs but nods, firm and determined. “Alright. Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

Later, standing under the hot spray of the shower, Stiles lets his shoulders slump, leaning most of his weight against the wall. He flexes his right hand, and his arm twinges. Still hurts. Fucking Doctors.

He’s tired. He can’t remember what it feels like to _not_ be this tired.

He closes his eyes. His hair plasters itself to his forehead, and the pounding water tugs at his eyelashes, his lips. It melts the knots in his shoulders and back, melts some of the stress off too.

He can’t stay in the shower forever, however tempting it can be at times, so he gives himself fifteen minutes and then steps out and towels off. Throws on a pair of boxers and doesn’t bother with a shirt when he makes his way back to the living room. He’s already turned the A/C off because it’s one of those older noisy models that sounds like a truck engine on its last legs.

He makes his rounds, checking the door, checking the windows, ignoring the way Lydia sleeps through his circuit and Peter doesn’t. Then he sits on the couch and checks on his wards. Still strong, still undisturbed, and yet...

He turns off the lamp on the coffee table. Hopefully, he’ll be able to get some decent shut-eye tonight.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	6. Chapter 6

 

Stiles wakes to the shriek of klaxons going off inside his head, and long practice has him rolling off the couch and shucking on a shirt and some jeans in the time it would take someone else to wipe the sleep from their brain.

He sweeps the room with controlled urgency, snagging bags and stuffing belongings into them as he goes by, and then he’s in Lydia’s room, and the banshee is already waking up, bleary-eyed but with the presence of mind to at least start looking around with increasing confusion. “Stiles? What-”

“We need to leave,” Stiles cuts her off, tossing a spare duffel onto her bed, and suddenly, Lydia’s wide awake and only growing tenser. “We’ve got company. Not quite at the climb out the window and scale down the side of the building stage yet so you’ve got five minutes to change and pack, understand?”

Lydia rakes a hand through her hair, scrambles from the bed, and doesn’t waste time asking questions. She just nods, all business, then grabs the closest change of clothes she can find and bolts for the bathroom.

Stiles heads next door, and of course, Peter’s already up, probably ever since Stiles woke in such a hurry. He’s already in a pair of sweats, and he’s throwing on a shirt when Stiles ducks in.

“Five minutes,” Stiles repeats, tossing the man another duffel, and Peter catches it deftly with a curt nod before turning and scooping up his other clothes. Neither he nor Lydia have much, Peter even less than Lydia because Stiles wasn’t originally planning on bringing him along; they’ll have to do some proper shopping after this.

He powerwalks back to the sitting room. He never really unpacked much, just whatever he needed at the time, so there’s not much repacking required, and altogether he only has four bags to juggle. The remaining groceries will have to stay behind.

He has his shoes and coat on by the time Peter hustles out of his bedroom, followed shortly by Lydia, who looks even paler in the dark. Stiles hands two bags to Peter and slings the other two over his left shoulder. “Let’s go.”

He leads them to the nearest stairs but pauses by the window at the end of the hall that’s been cracked open to let some of the air in. Even from here, the voices are audible.

“-acked shifters here, lady, so you’ll tell us which room you gave them or you’ll be spending your next five years in prison.”

“Please, I- I don’t know what you’re talking about! If there are shifters here, I- I don’t know-”

A smack of skin against skin. A scream pierces the air, followed by muffled sobbing.

“I said-”

“Stan, she might actually be telling the truth. There’s not even any mountain ash around this place. She’s an idiot, not a liar.”

“Well today’s your lucky day, lady. We’ll smoke out your unwelcome guests ourselves. You can thank us with a decent meal afterwards.  Hunting game always makes me hungry.”

Stiles’ mouth twists with distaste even as he reaches for the door handle leading to the stairwell. Then he pauses and looks from Lydia to Peter.

“What?” This time, his lips curl with sardonic amusement. “I did warn you. And that was tame compared to most attitudes so you better get used to it fast. Now come on.”

They speed down the stairs but they’re not even three floors down before a door opens one level down, and two hunters enter the stairwell, each one holding a gun. They’re discussing something – the first is half-turned around to face the second – and they only notice what’s above them when Lydia doesn’t quite manage to stop in time, and so her next step echoes off the concrete walls.

The hunters look up, door swinging shut behind them. Lydia hisses, terrified, “ _Stiles-_ ”

But Stiles is already vaulting over the railing and dropping to the floor below. The hunters barely have time to raise their weapons halfway, and one of them manages to release the beginning wisp of a shout, before Stiles is on them, pistol in hand, and gravity plus weight plus intent smashes the butt of it straight into the first hunter’s skull.

Stiles lands in a crouch, the first guy lands in a heap, and the second guy splutters, “Hey-!” right before Stiles rises, simultaneously reversing his grip on his gun, and then brings it up again in a solid backhand that clips the man’s chin hard enough to break his jaw _and_ snap his head back so that it slams against the wall behind him with a sickening crack.

He tumbles to the floor just like his partner, dead and dyin- excuse him, dead and dead, and then – all at once – the only sounds that remain are the fading echoes of the fight and the whisper of a sleeve as Stiles holsters his gun again.

He glances up. Lydia’s mouth is hanging open. Peter stares from Stiles to the hunters and then back to Stiles, his eyes have gone all hot and electric, and for the first time since Eichen House, a glimmer of a smile tugs at one corner of his mouth.

Stiles rolls his eyes and turns away. “What are you waiting for? Move your asses.”

 

* * *

 

They make it to the parking lot. Well no, they make it to the lobby level first, and the stairwell door is open so they get front-row seats to three hunters dragging out a snarling gold-eyed werewolf who’s already been beaten bloody but is still twisting and writhing to get free.

Stiles claps a hand over Lydia’s mouth and snags the back of Peter’s shirt with his other just as a fourth hunter fires point-blank at the captured werewolf.

“Well that’s one less piece of vermin littering the planet,” The guy mutters, and laughter bounces around the lobby even as a pool of blood swims its way out from underneath the dead shifter on the floor, and the clerks all cower behind the front desk.

Stiles shoves both his companions down another flight of stairs, keeping an eye on the door to make sure no one looks their way. Lydia seems to be halfway in shock; whether that’s due to what she just saw or her banshee powers, Stiles doesn’t know and doesn’t much care at this point. They need to get out of here.

Peter on the other hand doesn’t need much urging. He goes when Stiles lets him go, and he gets to the parking lot door first, throwing it open a second before Stiles catches up, yanks him back _again_ , and then takes three steps around him and slits the throat of the startled hunter standing on the other side of the door.

Peter snarls even as the body drops. Stiles swings around, tucking away his knife, and gives the man a hard shake by the neck. “You want to leave evidence of _more_ shifters staying in this hotel? We don’t need hunters on our asses this early in the game so calm the fuck down before I start thinking Eichen House took your brain along with your manners!”

He scowls, flicking an assessing eye over the werewolf’s frozen features. It’s mostly, he suspects, because of the hand Stiles has wrapped around his nape. He sighs and lets go, and then has to grab Peter’s shoulder briefly when the guy staggers. “Come on.”

He glances at Lydia, who’s shivering but seems to have recovered, at least enough to dart towards the entrance of the parking garage and scrub out the visible mountain ash line with one shoe. She hurries back, smiling grimly when she catches Stiles’ eye, and then they’re all stowing the bags into the trunk. Peter moves more cautiously than before but when Stiles just ignores him in favour of sliding behind the wheel and starting the car, he hastily shuts the trunk, closes the passenger door for Lydia, and then crawls into the back.

“Won’t they be keeping an eye on any cars coming and going?” Lydia asks, fumbling for her seatbelt.

“Well, yeah,” Stiles pulls out of the parking space and heads for the exit. He leans over towards the glovebox, rifling around inside until he finds what he’s looking for.

He clears the garage and pulls into another space outside before triggering the explosion.

The car jolts and throws all three of them forward with the force of the blast as the entire underground parking lot goes up in flames. Stiles tosses the detonator back into the glovebox, waits until his wards tell him that all the hunters have either run off or were caught in the explosion, and then starts the car again. Within seconds, they’re leaving the hotel behind them under the convenient cover of the smoke, and hitting the highway just as the distant wail of sirens breach the night air.

“Could’ve gone better,” Stiles mutters to himself, frowning as he mentally checks the runes on the car. Three of the ones on the back have been singed. Damn it, that means he’s gonna have to redo the entire sequence.

“Is this… normal?” Lydia enquires, and Stiles glances over at her, taking in the stunned expression on her face.

He shrugs. “It’s usually worse. I mean, back in Beacon Hills, you couldn’t really run, not forever. Sooner or later, something catches up to you, and if you don’t kill it first, it’ll kill you, so, you know. Kill it first.”

 The highway is free of cars this time of night so Stiles cranks down the windows to let in some fresh air.

“Weren’t there people above the parking lot?” Lydia asks next, voice faint.

“Outdoor pool’s above the parking lot. And the wards will reinforce the structure of the hotel long enough for people to evacuate.” Stiles throws her an amused look. “Aw, Lyds, I’m not _that_ much of a sociopath yet.”

Lydia levels a very flat, very shrewd gaze on him in return. “You were always one in the making, Stiles.”

Stiles laughs. “Ouch, that hurts, my lady.”

Lydia just rolls her eyes and doesn’t have to say a word to call him on his bullshit. But the stiffness in her shoulders unravel, and Stiles is content to let her have the time to digest everything that just happened. His gaze drifts instead to the rear-view mirror, and shuttered blue eyes stare back.

“Can you teach me?” Lydia asks, and Stiles turns his attention back to her. The banshee looks back, and the shock from before is gone, replaced by resolute steel and a terrible fire that burns all the brighter – and that much darker – inside her after two years locked up in that nuthouse.

“What you did to that asshole in the parking lot,” She clarifies. “I want to learn. Teach me.”

For a moment, Stiles takes his eyes off the road completely. Then he grins. Cackles outright in fact. “Yeah, Lyds, I can definitely teach you that.” His grin widens. “Amongst other things.”

He tips his head back, catching Peter’s gaze again in the mirror. “And you? I should probably teach you too, whether you want to or not. Fangs and claws aren’t always the best idea in this day and age.”

A slow blink answers him, followed by a pinched expression that smooths away again in the space of a breath. Then Peter nods, once, carefully. “I can shoot a gun. And I expect I’ll pick up how to use a knife quickly enough.”

He says it like a fact, without the smugness that used to coat practically every word that came out of the old Peter’s mouth. Stiles hums and makes no comment on it. “Quicker you can pick it up, better for everyone.” He turns off the highway at the next exit. “First thing’s first though – let’s get outta Nevada.”

 

* * *

 

They do, eventually, have to figure out a destination. Or at least, Lydia asks because Stiles doesn’t say, and that’s mostly because he doesn’t really have one, nor does he care.

“If we don’t have a destination, then-” Lydia stops as abruptly as she started. She looks down at her lap for a long moment before starting again. “I didn’t ask earlier but… do you know where Danny is? Do you think he made it out ali- made it out?”

Stiles frowns at the road, at the steering wheel, at Lydia. Lydia stiffens. “What? What is it?”

Stiles scrutinizes her a few seconds longer before shrugging. “Danny left before Theo even got to Beacon Hills, Lydia.”

Lydia _stares_. “…What? I- No he didn’t.”

“Yeah, he did,” Stiles contradicts firmly. “Lyds, he left the summer before senior year. I think his family was making plans around the time we were taking down Kate and the Berserkers, and he stayed for the rest of junior year, but then he and his family moved away, probably ’cause of all the crazy shit going down in Beacon Hills every time someone turned around.”

Lydia’s gone white. “ _No he di-_ ” She falters and glances away. In the back, Peter watches with the vaguest hints of curiosity on his face.

And then, “He did?” and the banshee’s voice is very small.

“Yup,” Stiles studies her again. “Do you not remember or did you just not notice?”

She flinches like Stiles slapped her, and for a flicker of a heartbeat, he feels something like regret and maybe guilt. It’s gone as swiftly as it came, guttered like a blown-out candle.

“I remember just fine!” Lydia snaps, metaphorical hackles rising, but then she deflates just as fast, and her hands come up to rub at her face. “He didn’t- He never told me.” She raises her head. “Did he tell you?”

Stiles scoffs. “Were we friends? Nah, I just liked keeping an eye on people, that’s all, especially when they were involved with all the crap we were drowning in, even if it was just by association.”

Lydia goes silent again. “…He didn’t tell me.”

Stiles slows to stop at a red light. “Maybe he thought you wouldn’t care.”

“He was my best friend!” Lydia all but snarls.

“Yeah, and Jackson was your boyfriend and you literally saved him with the power of true love but that didn’t stop him from moving across the country and burning all his bridges the first chance he got, did it?” Stiles retorts. “People grow apart. Even friends. Even boyfriends and best friends and any other friend you can think of.” The light turns green. “And let’s be real – when was the last time you hung out with Danny outside of class anyway? Definitely before Kate, so, since the Nogitsune? Since the Alpha Pack? Since Peter?”

Peter doesn’t quite twitch but he comes close.

The delicate line of Lydia’s jaw tightens, and her lips thin until it’s a white slash across her face. “…Do you know where he is?”

Stiles sighs. “You want to go find him?”

Lydia glares. “I want to make sure he’s okay.”

“He’s probably more okay than we are,” Stiles mutters, taking a left onto a side street. “Danny-boy is a master at pretending he knows nothing about anything and turning a blind eye to everything going on around him that’s remotely not normal. He did it with werewolves back in Beacon Hills; he can definitely do it now, considering even more is at stake.”

Lydia opens her mouth, and then closes it. Something like dawning realization creeps into her expression. “I thought you liked Danny.”

Stiles shrugs. “I did, inasmuch as I liked anyone whose wellbeing I wasn’t particularly invested in since we weren’t friends. We were barely friendly but he was more or less an all-around good guy. And now it’s been like over two years since I last saw him. Excuse me if I’m not rushing to his rescue, especially since he probably doesn’t even need rescuing. I mean he has more self-preservation instincts than _Peter_ , and that’s really saying something.”

Lydia bites down on her lip. It’s a little strange to see her not wearing any lipstick. “Can we go anyway?”

Stiles drives without a word for the next three minutes. And then he heaves another sigh. He sighs a lot these days. “What the hell. It’s not like I’ve got anywhere else to be. Peter?”

Peter blinks, like he didn’t expect he’d get a say in the matter, and then he shrugs, ’cause he really couldn’t care less. “I’m not opposed to it.”

“Okay then,” Stiles takes a sharp right onto a deserted street with only a handful of flickering streetlights. “I only know where he and his family moved to after junior year; if he moved again since then, I’ll have to do some digging. But for now, next stop – Dallas.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	7. Chapter 7

 

“You’re different.”

Stiles peers through the wind and rain pelting the windshield. The wipers do their job but it’s a pain in the ass driving through Colorado when the weather’s this bad. They’re taking the long way around, from Utah to Colorado to Oklahoma and then to Texas. It’s definitely more than a bit of a drive but everything from Washington, down along the west coast, and Arizona and New Mexico are hotspots for hunters. Not that all the other states haven’t lost their collective fanatical minds but it’s especially shitty in the west.

“What?” He asks belatedly, recalling the innocuous statement Peter just threw at him a moment ago. He squints into the rear-view mirror. “Oh, well, so are you. So’s Lydia. So’s the entire world for that matter. It’s a thing these days, being different.”

But Peter shakes his head. He’s toed off his shoes but not socks, and he hasn’t bothered with a seatbelt, opting to sprawl lengthwise along the backseat instead, with a pillow he stole from either the hotel or the hotel’s gift shop – because Stiles sure as heck doesn’t have any pillows with him – stuffed behind him. The blanket draped over Peter’s lap on the other hand _is_ one of his; he got it out from the trunk before they even crossed state lines. And Lydia’s similarly curled up in the front. After a long moment of deliberation, Peter did grudgingly give her one of his pillows, so it cushions her head from the window, and she’s tucked her legs up under another blanket, having fallen asleep about two hours ago.

They’re both in new clothes, mostly because Lydia can no longer tolerate Stiles’ fashion sense, even though she insisted on keeping one of the plaid shirts. They stopped at an outlet mall earlier but even then they didn’t buy much. They’re constantly on the move; they have neither the time nor money to buy much more than necessities.

It’s been about a day since then. And now it’s raining buckets.

Peter stirs in the back. “I don’t mean-” He begins, and then stops so abruptly that Stiles tosses him another glance through the mirror. The werewolf’s expression darkens with distaste, like it offends him that his words seem to have deserted him. He shuts the book in his lap – a newly bought copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ of all things that Peter not so subtly snuck into the pile back at the checkout counter – and tries again. “I told you I could be loyal.”

“Mm-hm,” Stiles agrees dryly. “Then you tried to kill me.”

Peter’s expression twists with a snarl. “I had to know you could handle me!”

A long minute of strained silence follows, with nothing but the steady swish of wheels on wet road to break it.

“Bit masochistic of you,” Stiles murmurs at last. “But okay, whatever floats your boat.”

Peter snorts quietly, and now he just looks mostly tired. “ _Stiles_. I can’t follow an Alpha who won’t-” He stops and takes a breath that sounds like it hits a wall halfway down his trachea but he continues before Stiles can say anything. “Talia could barely handle me on good days. She never trusted me as much as an Alpha should trust their enforcer, and I never… I never respected her as much as a Beta should respect their Alpha. We were too… different.” He smiles but it’s an empty stretch of his lips. “Everything from our age to our methods were too different. I never attacked from the front if a good stab in the back would protect our Pack from danger better. That was my _job_ , the job _she gave me_. But Talia always disapproved anyway. She was too straightforward, too _honourable_ , because these are _civilized times_ after all.” His tone lilts up mockingly before going flat again. “She wanted peace and she got it, for a good number of years because our Pack was well-known and old and strong, but she grew complacent with it, so when a threat to our Pack snuck in, she never saw it coming. Refused to see the signs, even when I pointed them out to her.”

He pauses again and his gaze goes distant and blank. His fingers glide against the spine of the book in his lap but it’s an absent gesture, one without thought. Stiles looks from the rear-view mirror to the road and then to the wing mirror on his side. His eyes linger before moving back to Peter’s reflection again.

“And then Laura,” Peter chuckles bitterly. “Such a poor excuse for an Alpha, my darling niece was. Leaving me to rot. Didn’t even have the decency to kill me first before she ran. And then Derek? Please. He couldn’t deal with his own issues six days out of seven, much less a pack of drama-prone teenagers and Beacon Hills on top of that. And _Scott_.” The name comes out so sharp and so thin that it sounds like the hiss of a snake. “Whose solution to every problem was to let the problem go free even after they slaughter his precious packmates, and look how that turned out for him. He all but kicked off the apocalypse. _Nobody_ looked at him and saw an Alpha worth respecting. Worth _anything-_ ”

“Hey, I’m well aware of Scott’s shortcomings, thanks,” Stiles interrupts in a voice as bland as his old math teacher’s lectures when it looked as if Peter might start ranting. Peter’s mouth shuts with a click, and after a moment, his head bobs once, stiffly. Stiles sighs. He glances at the side mirror again before taking a left, from flooded road to flooded road. “Just get to the point, Peter.”

Peter’s face does something subtly complicated, and it looks like it takes some real effort to smooth it out again. He looks down. Looks up. Meets Stiles’ eyes in the mirror. “You could’ve killed me. But you didn’t.”

Stiles arches an eyebrow. “Yeah, well, body disposal is such a hassle.”

Peter doesn’t so much as blink this time. “You could’ve. You _can_ , anytime I think. Your Spark’s certainly matured if you can overpower a werewolf so easily, even-” Irritation tilts his eyebrows. “-a weakened one. But you didn’t kill me, and then you took me with you when you could’ve just left me behind.”

Stiles shrugs. Road. Side mirror. Road. Rear-view. “I took you with me because I already got you out from Eichen House, and that means I have a responsibility to you now. But if you fuck with Lydia, if you fuck with _me_ , really fuck with me instead of pulling idiotic stunts right after you just spent twenty-four hours detoxing, don’t think I won’t put you down for good.”

Peter is silent in the backseat. He swallows. Rubs a thumb along an edge of the book. When he looks up again, he even musters a faint, wry smile that looks surprisingly genuine.

Stiles squints suspiciously at him. “You know, I can understand if Eichen House managed to knock a few more screws loose, but are you telling me that you want an Alpha who can throw you around when you’re being a bad boy? ’Cause newsflash, buddy, that ain’t what you’re supposed to look for in an Alpha, and I mean, you had enough of that with Derek, didn’t you?”

Peter outright scoffs. “Derek resorts to violence for nearly everything. It’s the only way he knows how to solve whatever problem is in front of him. So no, Stiles, that’s not what I’m looking for in an Alpha.” He pauses. When he looks down this time, he keeps his gaze there, strangely tense. “You didn’t kill me. You didn’t leave me behind. _You_ _took me with you._ ”

“You have low standards,” Stiles retorts, taking a right at the next intersection. His gaze drops to his wing mirror again.

Peter shrugs and finally lifts his eyes again, although he flashes his throat too this time while he’s at it. “I can be loyal,” He repeats once more, soft and solemn with just a thread of desperation underneath. “Give me a chance and I’ll prove it.”

Stiles blinks, a slow dip of his lashes that fails to detract anything from the critical eye he pins on the werewolf.

“Well,” He says at last, shoulders rolling nonchalantly. “Assuming I actually want to be your Alpha, or anyone’s Alpha for that matter, I guess we’ll see, won’t we?”

And then – all at once – he slams on the brakes even as he reaches for the door to shove it open, almost pitching Peter onto the floor while Lydia jolts awake with the force of it, slightly wild-eyed and arms thrown up like she’s expecting someone to come at her with a scalpel.

“Wh- Stiles, what-”

“Stay in the car,” Stiles orders, seatbelt already rattling back into its compartment, and then he’s ducking out of the car before it’s even fully skidded to a halt, swinging up onto the roof just as the car behind them rams straight into their rear bumper at full speed.

There’s a searing flash of light as every rune Stiles meticulously slapped onto his car when he first purchased it flares up like the fourth of July, and the nondescript Toyota goes _flipping_ backwards like the result of a high-speed car chase straight out of Mission Impossible. It hits the ground again upside-down with a nasty crunch, and then it rolls a few times before finally coming to a stop, the roof all but destroyed against the pavement, the wheels still spinning eerily in the air.

Stiles remains crouched on his beautiful work of art of a car. It only takes four shots before the Toyota goes up in a violent explosion of red-hot flames, the sudden heat fanning high even in the middle of the downpour, greedy for more to burn, whispering against Stiles’ cheeks.

With that done, he clambers back down, settling into the driver’s seat again as he puts away his gun. He flicks a glance at his companions. They’re both staring at the wreckage behind them, and they don’t stop staring until Stiles shuts the door and starts the car again.

“…I’m gonna take a shot in the dark here and assume we were being followed,” Lydia offers.

“Yup,” Stiles nods, popping the ‘p’ as he speeds away from the burning car. “It’s been following us for over half an hour. Definitely hunters. It’s one of their tactics – tail a car they think might contain non-humans for one reason or another and either cause a little accident or arrest them. Or you know, let them go if they’re really just humans. After a thorough interrogation of course.”

They can’t hear any sirens over the rain, but then again, medical personnel and hospitals have been stretched rather thin now that violence and death have become a way of life. There’s no saving the occupants of that car anyway. If they didn’t die on impact, the explosion definitely killed them.

Lydia leans back in her seat, lips pursing. “I need those gun lessons.”

Stiles quirks a smile. “We’ll park somewhere remote and deserted and I’ll start teaching you.”

Lydia hums her approval and seems content to watch houses slip by outside for now. Stiles smiles a bit more and lifts his gaze to meet Peter’s. The werewolf’s eyes are glowing faintly, more wolf than human.

Stiles turns his focus back onto the road. Something sparks in the back of his mind, a pulse of tentative potential, stirring like the shiver of an egg as a bird fights its way out, curious and new.

He has to suppress the frown that follows. He doesn’t acknowledge it. He drives.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	8. Chapter 8

 

Stiles picks up smoking after Scott goes and tells the Sheriff about Donovan and Stiles goes home and finds the front door locked to him no matter how many times he knocks because he lost his house key somewhere when Parrish totalled his jeep. The cruiser’s in the driveway, and there’s a familiar shadow wavering upstairs by his dad’s bedroom window; Stiles can read between the lines.

He leaves. Wanders until he finds himself downtown, slumped against a bike rack at two in the morning. Exhausted. Sore. Mostly numb.

He doesn’t even remember what the guy looks like. He has a vague memory of brown hair and a youngish early-twenties face, but other than that, all Stiles can recall is being offered a smoke after the dude ambles by, stinking of alcohol and nightclubs and _normality_ , and he squints at Stiles before remarking, “You look like shit, buddy.”

That’s about the only words they share. But the guy holds out an open pack of cigarettes after sticking one in his own mouth, and for some reason, Stiles takes one even though he’s never smoked before in his entire life. The dude lights Stiles’ cigarette, lights his own, and for the next fifteen minutes or so, two complete strangers perch themselves on a bike rack and puff away, with Stiles spluttering out the occasional cough and garnering amused looks from his new acquaintance. Then they part ways.

Stiles never sees the guy again. Or if he does, he doesn’t recognize him. But the smoking sticks with him. He goes to the nearest drug store the very next day after a night of skulking up and down dark sidewalks and buys a pack of Marlboro because that’s what the guy gave him.

Two years later, he’s still smoking the same brand.

 

* * *

 

At this point, Stiles isn’t that picky, but neither Lydia nor Peter likes using the washrooms in gas stations or diners when they don’t absolutely have to so – because they can this time – Stiles pulls into the parking lot of a hotel, and they all slip inside to grab a hot shower in the pool’s adjoining bathrooms.

Stiles gets out first, with Peter still enjoying the heat in the stall next to his, and Lydia has enough hot water going that steam is curling out from the crack beneath the door to the ladies’ room, so he gets dressed and heads back to the car to wait for them.

It’s stopped raining for now. The air is cold, and the ground is damp, but at least Stiles can perch himself on the hood of his car and get a cigarette going. He pockets his lighter and takes a deep drag. The smoke comes back out through his nostrils, which amuses him. He wonders when a hunter’s going to go bumbling into a dragon. He hopes the dragon squishes them good. Eating them might cause indigestion.

There are no stars tonight.  It’s almost always overcast these days so Stiles can barely remember the last time he could look up and find the constellations his mother once taught him.

The deliberate scrape of a shoe makes him sigh.  Peter enters his peripheral vision and then weaves out of it again as he opens the car door to stash away his towel and dirty clothes.  They’ll have to stop at a laundromat later, or wait until they find a hotel they can stay in.  Stiles doesn’t want to make any long stops right now.  They’ve just about overstayed their welcome here as it is.

Peter straightens, and Stiles snorts through a cloud of smoke this time when the werewolf dithers next to the open car door like he can’t make up his mind about whether to just wait in the car or join Stiles.

Stiles considers the hotel fountain on their left for a moment before scooting his ass to the right, leaving an obvious space beside him.

It takes about thirteen seconds before Peter finally shuts the door, and another handful of seconds for him to hoist himself up onto the hood and sit down rather gingerly next to Stiles.  He’s so stiff though, it’s almost funny.

“You don’t have to sit here,” Stiles points out dryly.  Peter just makes a noncommittal sound and doesn’t move so Stiles shrugs and leans back against the windshield instead.

There are no stars tonight.  He breathes out, and the dark grey skies above go hazy with smoke.

It takes a while, but eventually, Peter does shift around a bit until he’s lying back as well, and then – just as quickly like he’s been electrocuted – he sits up again.  For a minute, it seems as if he would be content to sit after all, but then he starts moving again, swaying back until his shoulder blades are brushing the windshield.  It’s an admirable display of abdominal control but when Peter hunches and starts lurching back upright a second time, Stiles scrubs his free hand down his face, mutters an annoyed, “Oh for god’s sakes,” and before Peter can react, he reaches out, snags him by the back of his shirt, and yanks him back down.

Peter topples back, startled, and then he jerks like he wants to pull away.  If Stiles wasn’t holding on to him, the werewolf would’ve pitched himself off the car.

“Would you calm down?”  Stiles exclaims with more than a little exasperation.  He yanks again, and Peter’s elbow buckles just enough to tumble the werewolf onto his back, head partially smooshed against Stiles’ shoulder with Stiles’ arm trapped at an awkward angle under Peter’s body.

Peter freezes.  Stiles just snorts again, sticks his cigarette between his teeth, and prods and nudges at Peter until the werewolf’s weight isn’t crooking his wrist down uncomfortably.  He doesn’t remove his arm though, so Peter ends up curled up on his side, shoulder jammed up right under Stiles’ armpit so that Stiles’ shoulder serves as something of a headrest for Peter, and the werewolf’s expression is a mix of bewilderment and wary disbelief.

Tellingly though, he doesn’t move.  Stiles goes back to smoking and contemplating the shitty universe.  A chilly breeze blows by, heralding the oncoming winter, and Peter shivers like his werewolf resilience still isn’t up to par.  It probably isn’t.  Aside from that though, Peter stays completely motionless, even when Stiles occasionally sweeps a lazy hand down his back.

It’s a long couple minutes before Peter finally stirs again.  His hands remain close to himself so that they don’t even brush against Stiles but – cautiously – his head comes up, and bit by bit, he inches up just far enough so that his head is level with the curve of Stiles’ neck but not touching.

He pauses again, waiting, but this time, when Stiles continues doing nothing for another whole minute, Peter lets his head dip at last so that it can rest on the surface of the windshield but also tuck right under Stiles’ chin in some bizarre imitation of a bird going to sleep.

The car’s not that comfortable, honestly.

But Stiles remains silent.  His arm drops to the side, cigarette dangling from his fingers off the edge of the car.  But also too, he curls his other arm up behind Peter until he can drag fingers through the werewolf’s hair, nails scratching lightly, and just like that, like his strings have been cut, Peter goes limp, warm breath fanning out over Stiles’ collarbone in a shaky exhale even as a raspy purr whispers against Stiles’ ears.  He also takes a few not very subtle whiffs of Stiles’ scent like he’s trying to replace his oxygen intake with it.

Stiles doesn’t urge him up and off until he hears the muted slap of Lydia’s sandals.  The banshee gives them judgemental eyebrows but doesn’t say a word even when she spots Stiles’ hand lingering between the shoulder blades of a somewhat dazed-looking Peter as they slide off the hood of the car.

On the other hand, after stowing her belongings back into the trunk, she also steals Stiles’ favourite sweater to wear, which does wonders for snapping Peter out of whatever headspace he was in and making him scowl for a moment instead.

Stiles just rolls his eyes and gets back behind the wheel.  Time to ditch this place before suspicious hunters show up.

 

* * *

 

They reach Dallas in another day and a half.  On the surface, the city itself looks more or less normal.  There are adults hurrying to work, cars honking at each other, teenagers skipping school, restaurants and shops and business buildings all bustling with employees and customers and everything in-between.

But there’s also an underscore of tension in the air that nobody seems to want to acknowledge.  It’s everywhere you look.  People keep their heads down, stubbornly pretending that their world hasn’t changed, that it’s still the same as the one they were living in a year and a half ago, but they never quite manage it, not when a supermarket here, a bookstore there, an office building down the block, all have a guard or two positioned outside, armed to the teeth, and mountain ash lining the entrances.

Still, the human race is good at turning a blind eye when they want to.  Whether they agree with the new policies and security measures put in place or not, all of them act like they do.

As they weave through downtown streets, both Lydia and Peter are as tense as coiled springs.  Peter keeps his eyes a natural blue even though all their windows are tinted but his grip on the paperback in his lap is just a little too tight.  Lydia keeps her eyes on the view outside her window, taking in every stiff-shouldered businessman strolling into work with a briefcase in one hand and an apprehensive eye on all the newly installed CCTV cameras, and every parent clutching their child close whenever they have to walk past a patrolling officer, and every asshole who now works for the Non-Human Regulation Department and therefore thinks they have the right to rough up any passerby that catches their eye.

Unofficially, they definitely do.  Officially, the government can dress it up however much they want – it still amounts to the same damn thing.

Stiles trundles through traffic, strictly below the speed limit, and nobody speaks until he’s left the busier parts of Dallas behind.

Lydia lets out a pent-up breath.  “Is it like that everywhere?”

Stiles takes a left onto a quieter street.  “Some places are worse.  Some places are better.  Shifters especially don’t really live together in large groups in cities so hunters tend to hit towns more often when they’re weeding out packs.  But there’s stuff like this everywhere.  And it’s easier to hide in big cities than small towns.  No doubt, non-humans have cottoned on to that so I’m predicting an increase in hunter presence in the major cities sooner or later.”

He checks his GPS.  Danny lives in one of the Dallas suburbs, and they should be just a little over fifteen minutes away, but… He taps the screen a few times, frowning.  Lydia leans over.  “What is it?  Are those... roadblocks?”

Stiles looks ahead out the windshield.  “Something’s not right.”

And it doesn’t take long to find out what.

They reach the residential district.  Or at least they reach the edge of what remains of it.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Lydia whispers, eyes widening with horror.  In the back, Peter leans forward, abandoning blanket and book as he peers out between Stiles and Lydia, expression unreadable.

There’s yellow tape everywhere, blocking off an entire five blocks.  A few cars are scattered alongside it but they’re as abandoned as the houses themselves.  If they can still be called houses.  Most of them are crumbling, with irreparable damage done to their structure, leaving debris and plaster and rubble all over the yellowed front lawns and broken pavement.  There are overturned vehicles and rust-coloured stains splattered here and there, some faded, some as eye-catching as new paint, all more or less permanent if the rain hasn’t washed them away yet.  And when Stiles rolls down a window, the acrid stench of death and decay fills the car in seconds.

“Oh no,” Lydia claps hands to her ears, green eyes glazing over, and she begins rocking back and forth in her seat.  “No, no, no _no no no-_ ”

“ _Lydia_ ,” Stiles says sharply, pulling over and reaching for the banshee even as he releases his seatbelt.  “Lydia, look at me.  Lydia!”

Lydia doesn’t actually seem able to focus until Stiles cups her face in his hands and tips her head up to face him.  He stares unblinkingly into her eyes, never looking away as he coaxes in a steady voice, “Lyds, focus on me.  You’re the banshee.  You control what you hear, what you see.  Focus on me, and shut everything else out.  You’re the banshee.  _You_ control _your_ powers.  The dead has no hold over you if you don’t let it.”

Lydia whimpers, but some of the vacant terror leaves her expression, and she meets Stiles’ gaze and holds it.  Stiles wraps his hands around hers and gently guides them away from her ears.  It doesn’t help one way or the other anyway.  What she hears isn’t on the physical plane.

“Imagine a door,” He continues insistently.  “Between you and the voices.  And then shut it.  You’re the one with the key.  So shut the door and lock it.  And you know, you _know_ , nobody and nothing’s getting through that door unless you give the say-so.”

Lydia sucks in a breath that trips all over itself on its way in but she’s also nodding, her hands gripping Stiles’ wrists now, and awareness slowly re-enters her expression.

“I’m the one with the key,” She keeps mumbling under her breath, gaze turned inward even as her jaw firms with familiar determination.  “I can shut the door and lock it.  I’m the one with the key.”

Stiles waits patiently, calmly.  There’s that tingling feeling at the back of his mind again, an itch, a spark, and he allows it to take root, if only so that Lydia will have an anchor.  It seems to work because she blinks, and when she looks at Stiles, she’s really seeing him this time, although her grip on him doesn’t loosen.

“Okay now?”  Stiles enquires, rotating his wrists until he can gather her hands into his instead.

Lydia nods, clearing her throat, giving her head a shake, and looking a bit stunned, but overall, she’s here and she’s grounded, no longer being swept away by the tide of lingering souls around her.

“Yeah I-” She gives her head another shake before straightening, although she keeps her hands in Stiles’.  “How did you know how to do that?”

Stiles hums thoughtfully.  “You already have the instincts, Lydia.  You’re a banshee, born; you already know what to do.  You just tend to get overwhelmed because you don’t have enough experience to keep your mind grounded, so I gave you something to hold on to.  Also, I read a book.”

Lydia huffs a laugh and finally lets go, slumping back in her seat.  “I want that book, Stilinski.”

Stiles grins.  “It’s in the trunk.”

“Right.  Your Tardis trunk.”

Stiles’ grin widens.  He throws a glance over his shoulder where Peter is watching them both with the fascination of a born and bred scholar.  The man attempts to school his features back into something more neutral but Stiles only smirks and turns away.  “Okay, well, let’s go investigate, shall we?  Who knows, Danny might still be here.”

Lydia grimaces but steps out all the same, staring out at the wasteland in front of her.  “I hope not.  What the hell happened anyway?  This is…”

“Werewolves,” Peter growls, a flash of fang peeking out as he bends down to study some claw marks gouged right into the cement.  “And there are enough scents in the air for at least two small packs or one big pack.”  His nose wrinkles as he looks over at Stiles.  “Retaliation?”

Stiles shrugs and nods, absently checking the gun in his holster.  “I mean you can’t really expect anything else, can you?  Humans have destroyed the non-humans’ way of life.  They’re actively destroying them right now.  Of course some will retaliate.”

“This is a pointless massacre,” Lydia murmurs, tucking a scarf around her neck before accepting a pistol from Stiles.

“This is an example,” Stiles corrects with a twist of a smile as he tosses another gun to Peter.  “And a declaration of war.  It’s not the first time.”

They slip under the yellow tape and pick their way over loose stone and general wreckage.  Peter’s head swings around now and then, head cocked for the slightest sound that shouldn’t be there.

There are no bodies, as far as they can see.  Evidence of a slaughter, definitely, but no corpses.  No doubt, the police have carted them all away, and if there were any survivors, they would’ve been evacuated already.

“Why don’t they level the place and rebuild?”  Lydia mutters, skirting around a patch of red splashed across the sidewalk like someone’s head was cracked open here.

“No point,” Stiles peers through the shattered front door of one house.  “A lot of people died here, probably easier to just move the rest somewhere else.  And who’d feel safe sticking around long enough to rebuild anyway, much less live here?  The packs probably would’ve come back for round two, and even if a bunch of hunters were sent in to wait for an attack, area like this, they wouldn’t have much of an advantage, especially with civilians in the way.”

They spend the rest of the afternoon and evening combing the area.  Lydia’s expression pinches whenever she passes by a house or yard that’s painted with evidence of a particularly violent bloodbath but she doesn’t pass out or check out so it’s an improvement.

It’s clear though that there’s no one left here, not even someone squatting in a house for the night.  Stiles hasn’t picked up any sort of magical trap that a hunter might be able to rig up.  For all intents and purposes, the district has been completely cleared out.

One of the last houses they come across has the crumpled skeleton of a tricycle out front.  What looks to be brain matter is stuck to one of its handlebars.  Stiles sends Lydia to a different part of the block before she sees it.

He’s on the second floor of the same house now.  Most of it’s remained miraculously more intact than most of the other buildings.  Even the beds are all pristine and made, like the family’s simply gone out and would be back later.  A frozen piece of memory, eerily preserved.

On the other hand…

There’s a chest – shoebox-sized – at the back of the walk-in closet in the master bedroom that pings against Stiles’ senses.  The chest itself is nothing special, made of what looks to be polished birch, and there’s a clasp that opens easily enough.  But inside…

Stiles blinks.  He taps a finger against the raised lid as he studies the contents for a moment before reaching inside and knuckling the-

“Stiles?”

Stiles turns towards the doorway.  “What?”

“There’s something you should see,” Peter calls up the stairs, and he sounds grave enough to hurry Stiles along.  He closes the chest, and after a moment of consideration, he tucks it under his arm and takes it with him.  Might as well.

“What is it?”  Stiles asks as he joins Peter in the foyer.  Peter raises an eyebrow at the chest but he just tilts his head so Stiles follows him out.  The werewolf leads him to the very edge of the suburbs where Lydia is already waiting by a copse of trees, crouched down beside something in the dirt.

Stiles stoops down beside her.  “Huh.”

They’re footprints.  More than one pair.  Bare feet, by the looks of it, with impressions of claws attached, and they lead straight into the forest.

“They’ve gone native,” Peter sneers from several feet away where he’s examining another set of tracks.  “They’re not even bothering to hide their presence anymore.  I’ve heard of werewolves like this.  They talk about rising above all humans, living out in the open without needing to hide, hunting what they want, whenever they want, wherever they want, showing humans their place.  But it’s always just been talk.”

“Until now,” Stiles murmurs, hands pushing off his thighs to stand again.  “Well, I suppose a case could be made to argue that the humans started it.”

“So what do we do then?”  Lydia asks tersely, rising to her full height as well.  “Danny’s not here.  I could- If they have records of who died here, and they should, I could hack into the police files and check.  Danny’s showed me some stuff.”

Stiles glances at her.  “Okay, do that then.”

“But if he’s not?”  Lydia persists.  “If he’s still alive?”

Stiles stares into the forest.  “Then he either moved elsewhere or…” He pats the chest under his arm.  “…or he was taken.  Look at this.”

He balances the chest on one hand, flipping open the lid with the other.  Lydia peers inside.  Peter circles back to them and takes a look as well.

“…Furs?”  Lydia asks, looking bemused.

“Selkie skin,” Peter corrects her, surprise flickering across his features.  “Two skins, and still intact.”

Stiles hums a vague affirmative.  “Which means the selkies are still alive.  And if they’d been evacuated, no way would they have left these behind.”

“Which means the packs must have taken them,” Lydia concludes, turning sharply to scan the woods.  “Why?”

“If they hold the skins, they control the selkies,” Peter explains pensively.  “Slaves, basically.  They might want a couple of those.  I certainly wouldn’t be shocked.”

“But the selkies must not have told them anything if their skins are still here,” Lydia’s eyes narrow.  “So the packs must still be camped out nearby, somewhere, if they’re planning to come back for these once the selkies spill their location.”  She frowns.  “Why would they take Danny though?  He’s human.”

“Maybe he grew a backbone and confronted the packs,” Stiles suggests, ignoring the flat look Lydia throws him.  “Maybe he got Bitten and the packs decided to take him with them.  Maybe the packs want human slaves too.  Or maybe he wasn’t even taken.  Maybe he’s dead.  Whatever it is, we’re not gonna know by standing around here playing guessing games.  For now, let’s head back to the car.  We can decide what to do after we make sure he hasn’t already kicked the bucket.”

 

* * *

 

Eight hours later, they know Danny isn’t dead.  But he isn’t on the list of families that made it out either.  His mother, father, and two siblings are still alive and have been relocated to Shreveport.  Their only son however is labelled missing.

“We’re going after him,” Lydia says fiercely, spine like steel and a look in her eyes that says she’s ready to scream the eardrums off anyone who gets in her way.

Stiles tosses a look at Peter, who shrugs but inspects his claws with an odd smile on his face.  “I don’t have to use a gun if we’re hunting wolves, right?”

Stiles sighs and throws the car into reverse.  “We’re checking into a hotel and gathering more information first.”  A smirk tilts his lips.  “ _Then_ we go after them.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


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